Paradigm
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: It is the Regency Period on Primeva-the first of the troll planets. The upper classes are in a hedonistic state while the lower classes starve on the streets. Two major events are about to occur one after the other, the Revolution and the initiation of the first Sgrub session. (Originstuck, so it's the same setting, new characters).
1. Swan Lake

**Paradigm**

**Rated T for language and future violence**

**Origins Revolution Story based around the First Session, much before the Alphas and Betas.**

* * *

**Part I: Wine, Women, and Song**

_"We were the beginning. It was our fault that this happened, that it continues to happen. We were the first to play Sgrub, all the way back in the revolutionary period. It was mostly Kalina's doing, forcing everyone to play, but what happened after was all us. The people we used to be; the monsters we've become. I would give anything—my fingers, my toes, my soul—just to go back and fix it all. It's not possible. We tried. Once you enter, you can never return, because there is nothing to return to."_

_- The Fragments of a Dying Conqueror, 1789-?  
_

* * *

A young girl stands in her dressing room, peering at herself in her mirror, shifting the cups of her bodice, and being overly critical of her makeup. She is not the protagonist, but she is the voice. Today is the day she makes her debut for all of Primeva to see. She is incredibly nervous, as expected.

What was her name again? It's on the show's program.

**=== Featherbrained Asskisser**

Oh, _that's_ original. Try again, numbnuts.

**=== Cygnet Gliss****é**

Your name is Cygnet Glissé, and you are currently very nervous. You are about to perform before more people than you thought could even fit in that theater. You think your makeup is a bit _too_ pale, but the lady who did it said it looked fine.

You are a ballerina in the Primeva Metropolitan Ballet, the most recognized dance organization in the area. This is your first show as a principle dancer; you're more than halfway decent at what you do, but you're young, so this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You are eight solar sweeps old, the equivalent of seventeen earth years. You have a fondness for cute baby animals. You collect a bunch of old books, and you enjoy reading them with your moirail, who is also possibly the nicest person you know.

* * *

Her makeup was all wrong. Or, at least, she _thought _it was. There was blue shimmer all over her pale, white-makeup-covered face, blending into the cerulean of her eye shadow and the decorations on her wing-shaped horns. She was a princess tonight, a beautiful woman called Odette, changed into a swan by an evil sorcerer. A prince called Siegfried finds, saves, and ends up falling in love with her. But Odile, the sorcerer's daughter, tricks Siegfried by convincing him she is Odette. And it's all downhill shenanigans from there.

Cygnet would be playing both roles tonight, as was tradition.

She was terrified. First, Cygnet was still little. Her eye color had only recently filled in and she was still much smaller than most of the dancers. She was good, but little. Second, she was shy. Great activity for a shy person, ballet. Third, if she screwed up, they would boot her. No questions answered, no second chances.

There was a knock at Cygnet's door and she nearly knocked over everything on her vanity table in surprise.

"Cy?"

Enter Requin, her much taller moirail. He was a real-life prince, unlike the dancer who would be taking the role of Siegfried tonight. His glasses had fogged up and he was still wearing a great fur long coat, smiling like a child who got two cookies for dessert instead of the promised one.

"Is it that cold outside?"

"It's pretty cold. It's the Season of Ice and Lights; do you expect any less?"

Cygnet shrugged. She had been in the theater since last night and stayed all day, occasionally dozing off during rehearsal. The building was heated, and it was very possible to forget how cold the world outside was, with the darkness of night not alluding to any sort of weather conditions.

"Are you ready?" Requin asked, setting a bouquet of flowers down on her table.

"No, not at all."

"Curtain call's in less than a half hour, so you better get ready."

"How do you know when curtain call is?"

He tapped his head and smiled. "I know a lot of things, Cy. That's how it's always been. Good luck out there."

"Thanks, Quin."

He bowed and exited the room, leaving Cygnet to be worried alone.

* * *

**=== Follow him**

Follow whom, Requin?

**=== Yes, be him.**

You are now Requin Voliér.

You are the same age as Cygnet, but you were born a few months before she was. You are here to watch the performance. Partially because Cygnet is your closest friend and you feel the need to support her with every fiber of your being, and partially because that's what the upper bloodcastes _do_—they go to ballets, dances, operas, galas, et cetera.

You are a violet blood—a prince—and you support your blood color poorly by being too nice for your own good. You have a thing for leather-bound books and fancy yourself a detective prodigy. You would compare yourself to Troll Sherlock Holmes, but he won't exist for another century. Funny how Swan Lake is clearly in existence and it comes _much_ later. You have decided not to dwell on this fact for too long.

* * *

"How is Cygnet?" Kalina was waiting down the corridor, playing with a silk folding fan. Her dress was more embellished than Requin had imagined possible, with lace and thread embroidery coating the bodice and a chiffon veil falling over the opening at the top where her shoulders were exposed. It was a bit risqué.

"She's fine. Nervous, but fine. Why don't you go see her for yourself?"

"I'm not as close to her as you are. She'd probably shoo me away."

They had all three been close friends while growing up. At some point, Kalina drew back from Cygnet, breaking off any possible moirallegiance. She fell back on the company of the next highest up after Requin, a girl he could not stand. Quin had then separated from Kalina, but only for a sweep at most. Her pull on him was unfathomable.

"Kalina—"

"Drop it, Quin, we're not arguing about this." She snapped the fan shut. "We should go sit down."

Requin sighed. She was impossible.

Pretty, haughty, and cold, Kalina was the only adolescent fuchsia-blooded troll on the planet. Her manipulative nature made it easy for her to get what she wanted…most of the time. There were some things, however, that no matter how much she begged, Requin was in no position to grant her. One of those things would most likely get him killed in the end when she finally got her way, but there was no reason to accelerate his death date.

"Where are we sitting? Did you remember the tickets?"

"Yes, of course I did." Requin produced two black slips of paper from his coat pocket. Since Kalina had purchased them, her blood color flowed across the tickets in delicate decorative designs. Everyone was always trying to impress the crown princess, trying to earn her favor for the future, but Kalina never cared, never gave a second glance.

"Well, where are we, then?"

"Are you always this demanding?"

She paused a moment. "Yes."

"Box seats. Do you _ever_ buy non-box seat tickets?"

"Not that I recall, no."

"Next time can we not flaunt our status? Please?"

Kalina laughed. "Requin, why should we not flaunt status? Why conform to the lower classes when we are clearly above the peasantry? Even the nobility? Are you unsatisfied with your position, your blood color?"

"N-no—"

"Then why, _why_, Requin, do you question yourself?"

"I _don't_."

"Then act like you want to be where you are. You are the prince of this great existence, and I am its future ruler. We deserve each other." She punctuated her lecture by slipping her arm around his.

_But not in that way,_ Requin thought bitterly. Not black, not cruel, not the way Kalina was. Not what she wanted, for once.

They walked in silence into the theater and up the stairs to the booth. The building was old, turn of the century, with middle Bourbon-period architecture and flourishes. The inside was dark, lit by candles and oil lanterns, which reflected warmly off the gold paint on the arches and support pillars that lined the auditorium's sides. It felt cozy, even though the space was large. Requin liked it; he loved the older styles of architecture, especially anything influenced by Viteliun and Iberian designs. Their architecture and art were some of the most sophisticated things to come out of the Renaissance.

"The interior of the venue is stunning."

Kalina shrugged. "I've seen better."

Requin turned from the railing. "Have not."

She nodded. "We have two different ideas of the word 'stunning'. I think this is 'stunningly ancient', whereas you find it…aesthetically pleasing, I guess."

Requin rolled his eyes. Let her be negative in her corner.

The ballet would start soon, anyway, and then he wouldn't have to deal with her negativity.

* * *

**=== Go back to being the girl  
**

It was curtain call. Officially curtain call. Cygnet stood backstage left, heartbeat erratic and breathing staggered. She had an act until her entrance, but her future rode on this premiere. She watched as her castmates walked passed her to their spots. Some waved, others wished her good luck. The boy playing Siegfried blew a kiss and Cygnet felt her knees get weak. Oh, he was _dreamy_.

She needed to focus.

She watched as the act started and quickly departed from the wings, seeking comfort in the communal offstage area. Other cast members were inside, working on specific sequences for the millionth time, performing breathing exercises, reading, pacing, and putting the finishing touches on their costumes.

It could have been worse. She could have been an actor. She could have needed to know _lines_.

She removed her shoes—she kept taking them off and putting them back on; nervous habit—and stepped back out into the hallway. Maybe some fresh air would be a good idea. The corridor led to the main lobby. She was in full costume, there's no way she could be mistaken for a theatergoer, not with all the feathers sticking out of her head.

The lobby was alight with beautiful multicolored lanterns. The carpet was Paarsan, with rich white fabric and delicately kept tassels. The ceiling and walls were dark gold in color, gleaming with an antiqued air. She had never entered the theater through the front door, and its grandeur was stunning.

The open space was empty aside from two young gentlemen. One was making a fuss; the other was trying to calm the first.

"It's okay, honestly, you're missing the ballet," the second boy said in a hushed tone, pulling at his friend's sleeve.

"No, it is _not_ okay. It's flat-out discrimination." The first boy turned to the ticket-taker, who was a tall olive-blood. "I want to speak to your boss."

"They're not my boss' rules," the man said, unmoving. "They're from the guy that owns the theater."

"Where will I find him?"

"Probably inside, watching the performance, where you _should_ be right now," the second boy groaned.

"Well? Call him out, then!"

"No can do, sir," the man said, putting his hands up in defense. "You'll have to speak to him afterward."

"This is _ridiculous_."

"Fiamme, calm down, it's not that big of a deal."

"Yes, it is." The boy called Fiamme sighed in defeat. "We're friends, we should be able to _go_ places without having to look for restaurants that will serve all classes, theaters that _allow lowbloods inside._ I bought the tickets! It shouldn't matter past that!"

"But it does, that's society."

"No, no, Howell, don't start with this again."

Cygnet, standing in the doorway that led from the main lobby to backstage, took a moment to look over the two arguing trolls. The infuriated one called Fiamme was a teal-blood; low upper class, but well enough off that he could slip into the nobility and participate in high society. His clothes reflected his status; a long black frock coat with teal accents, polished leather shoes, a tall black wool hat with a dyed peacock plume, and delicate wire-framed glasses, which looked a bit out of place on his wild face.

The other boy, Howell, was not as finely dressed. He was in all black; avoiding the hemotyping process as much as he possibly could, it seemed. His coat was too long and looked borrowed from the other boy, his shoes scuffed and socks worn. Unlike his friend, his eye color had only just begun to come in, turning his eyes a muggy green shade. She had no idea what bloodcaste he was, the lines too blurred between three possible colors.

She caught the teal-boy's eye. He could easily recognize her as a cast member. (She could be nothing else, aside from maybe a gypsy or a barking mad lunatic, but neither of those would be in the theater.) She jerked her head slightly, beckoning him to her. The guard raised an eye but said nothing—dancer's privilege.

"I'm in the ballet; I can let you in round back if you'd like."

"Won't you get in trouble?"

"No." Lie. "Hopefully not, anyway."

"Are you sure? It's awfully kind of you."

She nodded. "I'm sure, it's the least I can do."

"What do we have to do?"

"There's a big iron door on the side that way," she said quietly, pointing to the way she came. "It's the backstage entrance. From there, you can slip into the audience from one of the sides. Is that all right?"

"It's great. It's more than I could ask for."

"Good, then make a fuss and storm out."

He nodded once and went back, cursing the establishment and dragging his confused friend out of the lobby. Cygnet returned backstage, hurrying through the corridor in her stocking feet. She snuck carefully by the common room and down another passage to the backstage entrance. The door to the outside was heavy, but she managed to push it open when the boys knocked. The frosted air flew inside with them, chilling her bones through her light tutu and tights.

"I need to properly thank you," the one called Fiamme said as she guided them to the theater entrances by the wings.

"It's no trouble, honestly, I'm sure you would have done the same."

"You can never tell these days, with the tensions all over the place."

Cygnet gave a little chuckle. "I suppose you're right. Times are changing. It's just through this door here, the big wood one. I cannot step out—I'm in costume."

"Thanks again!" Fiamme gave a bow and slipped through the door.

The boy called Howell trailed behind. "I should be the one thanking you, not him. He's too pigheaded about caste-related things nowadays."

"Is he always so brash?"

The boy laughed. "Yes, that's Fiamme. He's rather self-absorbed, too."

"He didn't seem such tonight."

"He puts his pride down for me, we've been moirails for ages now. It makes me equally flattered and embarrassed to be around him."

"I must say I am a little jealous. _My _moirail only makes me feel incompetent, but that's not necessarily his fault."

"I think I understand what you mean." He had his hand on the door. "I'm sorry, but I do not believe I caught your name."

"It's Cygnet."

"And I am Howell, but you already knew that, Fiamme cannot keep his mouth shut. It was lovely to meet you."

"And you."

"Once again, thank you." He gave her a wide smile and disappeared through the heavy doors.

Cygnet hurried off to the wings with a flutter in her step. She had to lace up her shoes and put on the best performance she could muster. She felt that wouldn't be some much of an issue anymore, her nerves having recovered in her brief intermission.

* * *

_"The royal bloods did not originally live underwater. The lower classes forced them back into the sea during the revolts. It gave us power, made us feel adequate for once; having control over those who had controlled us for our whole lives. They would have died, too, if evolution hadn't granted them gills a few hundred years back."_

_ - The Primevian Revolution: The Before and After; 1789-1799_

* * *

**A/N:** Some general notes on the story:

• This takes place during the troll version of the French Revolution, before the creation of Beforus. It's set with some anachronistic details because it's not Earth and I don't have to confine to such details as long as it's believable (however believable sci-fi can be).  
• The same way Hussie has based the pre-scratch trolls on social media types/bloggers, my trolls are based on dances; all of their names have a meaning in a different language. The most obvious two here are Cygnet and Fiamme, whose names mean swanling and flame in French and Italian, respectively. Cygnet is based around Ballet, and Fiamme, Galletta.  
• I'm going to take some unexplored details into my own hands, but keep as close to the known facts as possible. Some weird headcanons may slip, you are warned.  
• There are at least two parts to the story, possibly three. You are currently in number one, before the beginning of their session.

Well. That's all I've got for you so far. Thanks for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it. I know I've certainly enjoyed crafting the characters present and the ones yet to be introduced (I need to post my sketches later, I cannot do their horns justice in words).

Please do point out any spelling, grammar, word usage, or awkward phrasing errors. That's lovely. And critiques. Those are also lovely.


	2. Houdini

"_The first few days were the worst. We were disoriented, confused. The world was the same, but it was not. There was a grey film coating the places we visited, as though life stopped when the clock broke. That was our Medium; a land frozen in time."_

_- The Fragments of a Dying Conqueror, 1789-?_

* * *

**=== Requin: Be the responsible one**

"She's doing well, isn't she?"

It was intermission. The girls had all been transformed back into swans at the curtain close of act two. Cygnet had done exceptionally well for her first act as a principle dancer. Not that Requin was a good judge of ballet; he was more for ballroom.

Kalina shrugged. "She did okay."

"_Just_ okay?"

She rolled her eyes. "I've seen better."

"You think you've seen better in everything. But this is Cygnet, Kalinya—"

"Oh my God you are not about to start with that pet name again—"

"—we grew up with her." Requin looked her dead in the eyes, having no patience for her petty games when it came to his closest friend. "She's good; she's improved a lot from two sweeps ago. Remember the first time she was _en pointe _and fell and broke her nose?"

A smirk crossed her face and Kalina laughed. "I might. Fine, yes, you're right. She's doing exceedingly well."

"I'm going to go congratulate her. Would you like me to bring you anything to drink?"

"No, but…" A sly look took over Kalina's face. "You could say hello to Fiamme and his swampblood friend for me."

A sinking feeling climbed its way from Requin's stomach to his throat. "Kalina."

She raised her hands in defense. "I'm not going to tell."

He bit his lip, not sure how much to trust her. She never made things easy, always having a twist to her promises. "Where?"

"Down there," she said, joining him at the railing. She pointed into the mass of ballet-goers. The majority were rising to walk around, greet friends, and stretch, all talking amiably to one another. It was easy to pick out Fiamme, with his shock of messy hair standing up as if it were pumped full of static. Next to him was a boy with equally unruly hair, though his was wavy where Fiamme's stuck straight up.

Requin grumbled and trudged out of the box.

He descended the wide golden staircase past the bar on the mezzanine to the main floor. It was more alive with chatter than it seemed from the box, with people laughing, talking, and smiling. Fiamme and his friend were in the exact middle of the auditorium. Requin groaned as he scrambled through the aisles, muttering 'I apologize' and 'pardon me' the whole way.

"Ah! Requin! Hullo! To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Fiamme—no, no please, no bowing you're going to attract attention to—Fiamme _stop_!"

The boy sat back down. "Sorry, I always forget you're shy of the stage."

Requin sighed, a hand on his forehead. "It's fine. Totally fine. I am not so much attention-shy as worried."

Fiamme raised an eyebrow behind his wiry glasses. "Worried? What about?"

"This is a noble theater, Fi, and you just barely make the cut." Requin leaned in, lowering his voice. "Your friend does not at all."

Fiamme's eyes widened. "How did you notice?"

"Kalina did," Requin growled, jerking his head in the Queen of Hearts' direction. "She has keen eyes for this stuff, as you know."

Fiamme swore, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath. "Of course she did. Shit. How are we going to get out?"

"If you leave now—"

"No, we're not leaving now. I paid for our tickets; this is ridiculous."

"You know they don't care about that."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Then…" Requin glanced at Fiamme's friend. He was small in build, with horns like icicles spiking from his head. His hair was messy and tangled, reaching to the nape of his neck—as if _that_ wasn't a dead giveaway. Fiamme's hair was crazy, but at least it was ordered chaos. The biggest clue, however, was the boy's eyes. They were sharp, pointed almost, bearing the shade of a molded-over Paris green, hazy and dark. "But a _swampblood_, Fiamme?"

Fiamme's expression snapped to anger, characteristic fire burning fierce in his eyes. "Do _not _use that word."

"Then what do you call it?"

"I don't know! It doesn't have a name!"

"I'm called Howell, if it helps," the swa—the other boy interjected.

Requin and Fiamme stared at him.

"I can go now, if you want."

"It—no. We'll find a way to get you—how did you even get _inside_?"

"A girl in feathers let us in through the back. Is there any way we can get back out that way—"

"_Feathers_?"

"Yeah, in her hair and tutu—"

"One of the swans let you in?"

"Yeah, the cerulean one—"

Requin rubbed his temples. "Let me guess, she's Odette."

"That one!"

"_Cygnet._"

"Do you know her?"

He nodded gravely. "That's my idiot. I apologize; you will have to excuse me. I have a new neck to throttle."

"But how are we going to get out—"

"Your problem!"

Requin stormed off down the aisle to the wings. He flashed his crown card to the guard—level eleven clearance. He was so enraged it wouldn't have mattered if the man at the door denied him; he would get in somehow. He was Requin Voliér, and he _made shit happen._

"_CYGNET_!"

A flock of younger ballerinas jumped and split in two as he charged down the hall. The ballerinos ducked to the side and the stagehands stepped into doorways. People swerved out of the way when Requin was infuriated. His temper was wild, fluid like a molten river.

The trigger for his anger was in the communal dressing room, her costume pieces being adjusted by two dressers.

"Oh, hi Requin—"

"We need to have a word," Requin hissed in an unsettling tone.

Cygnet looked confusedly between her two assistants and dismissed them. She locked the door when they left. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? _What's wrong?_ Your head, that's what's wrong. You've gone daffy, got mold between your ears. Can you hear me? Or am I speaking gibberish?"

She frowned, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"

"A _swampblood_, Cy, you let a _swampblood_ in the _Théâtre Soir Doré. _Do you—can you even _grasp_ the consequences?"

"A _swampblood_? I didn't—"

"The boy with the greenish eyes. He's a swampblood. Don't you know what they look like?" His tone was sharp, condescending.

"I've never actually _seen_ one before. I know two green bloods—"

"It's not green bloods, Cy." Requin's temper was failing him. Her naïveté was killing him. "It's a separate thing, swampbloods."

"What are they, then?"

He looked around anxiously. "Now is not the time. I don't want you worrying. But _what were you thinking_?"

"I was thinking that it was ridiculous they wouldn't let the boy and his friend inside."

"That's because this is a high-blood theater. Fiamme can hardly make it in on most days. I've got no clue how he managed to wriggle his way in tonight."

"You know him?"

Requin nodded. "Yes, he's in debt to Kalina."

"Who isn't?"

"No one I know. Don't change the subject. I'm still upset with you. What you did was foolish and potentially dangerous. If you got caught, the man who owns the theater would have your head, do you understand that?"

"Is it really that serious?"

"Of _course_ it is. Everything related to class is nowadays. You could get yourself killed if you pulled a stunt in a more important place."

"Yeah, but I would get away with it. I'm friends with Kalina."

"You realize that she is a tricky, two-faced, _snake_, right?"

"But you still keep her company."

"More for appearance than anything now."

She raised an eyebrow that suggested something further.

"No, put that down, you're completely wrong. She doesn't have a heart."

"Whatever you say."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Moral of the story for today is…?"

"Is?"

"_THINK!_ Think, please, _please_, Cy. Before you do something stupid again. You'll get yourself into more trouble if you do not think." He laid a hand on her cheek. "You're lucky you've got friends watching out for your mistakes, even if one of them is double-edged."

"Thanks, Quin."

"Now go finish with a bang, all right?"

She smiled. "Not a bang, then I'm doing it wrong, Quin."

"Whatever. Do well."

"I will."

"Break a leg."

Requin exited the dress room into a hallway full of people. They were crowded around the door, all wide-eyed and curious. "What?"

"Are you her—"

"Moirail, thank you, now I need to go take my seat." He squirmed his way through the throng and out to the side entrance. Only two acts left, then he could go home and sleep off this feeling of dread—

Something was wrong.

There was chaos in the auditorium.

People were hurrying about, scurrying to the mid—

"Oh no," Requin breathed. He flew into action, running up the aisle to see—oh _our lady of mercy no_. A mob had gathered around where Fiamme and his friend had been seated. As he got closer, it became more obvious that Fiamme's cries of rage were going unnoticed, all the attention at the swampblood in the center. They were shouting, screaming, barking obscenities. The audience had quickly become a pack of feral animals. The boy stood nervously on top of one of the seats, trying to maneuver a way out.

"Stop! _STOP!_" Requin tried to break into the crowd, but it wasn't going well. He was shoved to the side, rammed backwards into a pillar. This really was _not_ his day.

Forced from the center, he watched as they got closer to the boy. The swampblood—Howell—was backed into a corner. They were almost upon him and—

There was a _pop_.

He vanished.

Into the air. He vanished.

Requin blinked, rubbed his eyes, and cleaned his glasses. The boy was still missing. The mob seemed just as confused, searching for him on the floor, the neighboring seats, and running through the aisles to check the other rows.

He took this chance to sprint up the steps back to Kalina, who would know something about this mess.

"Oh, Requin, welcome back."

"You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"What do you mean, Quin?"

"_That_." He pointed down into the theater. "I mean _that_."

"The mob or the boy?"

"BOTH!"

She bit her lip and steepled her fingers, unfazed by Requin's panic and frustration. "I may have had something to do with the first one, but not the second. I am just as confused as you are there."

"But _why_ did you do it? What point was there?"

"I was bored."

"You were bored," he deadpanned.

"Yes. You were not here to keep me company and I grew bored without intellectual stimulation. So I decided to try a social experiment."

"You are a dark-souled, heartless—"

"Save it for someone who cares, Requin, I gave up on that a long time ago."

He wasn't going to get through to her, would not figure out _exactly_ what she did to cause such a stir. It wasn't possible; Kalina was a locked box when she felt like it, and was known to swallow the key. When she was ready to explain—and _only_ then—she would tell him in detail. But before then, prodding would only cause her to spill the ink all over the documents.

"So you do not know what happened to the boy?"

She shook her head. "No, we are on the same page there."

"What _could_ have happened?"

"I have my ideas, but I doubt any of them are correct."

"Care to share?"

She grinned like an imp. "Of course, dear Quin."

* * *

**=== Fiamme: Go find Howell**

Not again.

Fiamme dropped to the ground the second Howell disappeared. He scrambled through the seats and down the aisle, exiting the auditorium. He did not expect such uproar. It was different in the lower classes; they took care of their own.

The madness had yet to reach the lobby, and he had no trouble getting out, making a break for the tall, thick wooden main doors. The darkness of the outside world ate at the light around him as the doors shut on the warm golden glow of the theater. It was snowing, and his coat was quickly devoured by the white frost.

He pulled on his gloves and snapped—fire. A flame burst into existence over the coarse material that coated the fingers.

"Howell?"

The city lights did not extend their brightness into the thicket beside the theater. He could see nothing in the dark—the light of the flame was minuscule compared to the blackness that enclosed the world around him. Fiamme squinted and increased the size of the fire cradled in his hand. Footprints were making their way through the freshly fallen snow. "Howell?"

There was a _pop_ and the boy reappeared before him, thick black coat buttoned as high as possible. His eyes were wide, reflecting nervousness from the soft glow of the fire. "I panicked."

"Yes, I can see that. I'm sorry, we should have expected that."

"_I_ did," Howell spit, a sword slipping into his tone, threatening to slit Fiamme's throat. "I _always_ expect the worst. Did you honestly believe they wouldn't _catch_ me?"

"Well—"

"No, you did not. You never do, Fi, and it will be your downfall. Everyone isn't as nice as you want them to be. You will never meet someone who is sugar and smiles; even sweets can be toxic."

Fiamme examined his boots. "You're mad at me. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm not mad." Howell sighed and turned his collar up against the wind. "I'm frustrated and troubled by your mindset. I'll accept your apology, but we _have_ to work on your perception of reality. For example, if this exchange happened anywhere else in society, between a noble and a—a _bog troll, _there would be hell to pay, and not for the noble."

Fiamme looked crestfallen. "Wow. I'm…you're right. I didn't understand the severity of the situation."

"That's because you're too _nice_. The girl who let us in was too nice. You've all got a harsh wakeup call coming when the tension gets worse."

"That'll come soon, won't it?"

Howell nodded. "Sooner than most would like. Now can we get back to your hive or something? I think the ice may be eating my toes."

Fiamme's hive was an old castle. It was a small castle, well-sized for his rank (the equivalent of a Viscount). This did not, however, make it easier to navigate. The interior was a gigantic maze, fitting Fiamme's preferences well. He liked brain puzzles and was quite adept with word games and riddles. His guest, on the other hand, got lost constantly inside. He was a frequent guest, but it did not lessen his confusion.

"Can we light a fire?" Howell asked as he removed his boots in the front room.

Fiamme smirked and snapped his fingers.

"Haha. Good one. How original. I have never seen that trick before." Howell rolled his eyes. "A _real _fire."

"I suppose so. I figure you'll be holing up in here for a while?"

"It it's all right with you, I don't want to overstep my welcome."

"As long as you don't stay for a _sweep_, I think that will be fine." Fiamme hung up his frock and tucked Howell's boots into the back of the coatroom and out of sight. "I have to talk to my lusus first, though. If you would excuse me." He bowed and left the room. Keeping a brisk pace, he took two rights, a left, and ascended two flights of stairs to the lower section of the east tower. Inside one of the tower's many rooms was a library of historical texts and scriptures was where his lusus usually hid. He pushed the door open slowly, not wanting to startle the creature.

"Avalerion?"

Inside the room was a tall bird with plumage in shades of warm crimsons, burnt ochers, vibrant goldenrods, dusty ambers, and airy saffrons; it gave the illusion of a shimmering, burning flame when the creature moved. On his head was a bright crest of royal design, gold and shining. The phoenix blinked his wide teal eyes at Fiamme. _Yes?_

"I need to protect Howell for the time being. Is it okay if he stays here?"

_What have you done this time?_

"Something _incredibly_ stupid."

_You always do something stupid, little Girare, you do not _think.

"I know, I already got a lecture."

_Then learn from your mistakes and we will have less of these issues. _

Fiamme looked down guiltily. "I always bring about these problems, don't I?"

_Do not start a pity party with me. Go take care of your friend._

"Thank you, Ava."

_And do not let it happen again._

"I won't," Fiamme promised and closed the door. His lusus was kind but stern, which always kept Fiamme on his toes due to Avalerion's flipping nature. He was a scholar of court, knowing anything and everything to do with the military and class histories of the kingdom.

"You're clear!" Fiamme called as he hurried down the hall.

"Completely?"

"Yeah, Ava says it's fine. He's upset with me, but you can stay."

"Now I don't have to worry about getting killed. Yay."

"We should probably figure out sleeping arrangements before—"

A knock echoed through the hall, deep and splitting. The boys froze.

"They followed us," Fiamme whispered.

"Please be wrong."

_Best you open it, _Avalerion's voice boomed through the walls. _She may freeze to death if you do not._

"You're not actually going to, are you?"

"If Ava says to, then I will."

"But what if he's wrong?"

"That's the thing about phoenixes; they're never wrong." Fiamme stepped carefully towards the door, blood pounding in his ears. If there was a freak incident and Avalerion was wrong—

Outside the grand doors was a girl dressed in ragged clothes. Her hair was a mess, adorned with glittering snow and blowing fiercely in the raving breeze. She was dressed incorrectly in comparison to her class—her eyes were a lively jade, dimmed by exhaustion and the cold.

"Oh thank God someone answered," she said through chattering teeth. "May I come in? It's savage out here."

* * *

"_Revolution or not, there was no peace for the Swampbloods, the Bog Trolls—the ones of odd coloration that belonged in a freakshow, a traveling circus, a museum; locked away somewhere, unable to affect the fragile minds of the public. They were foreigners in a xenophobic society, blemishes in the carefully organized hemospectrum. They had no place before, and they have no place after. They will wander the desert alone, but it is they who shall inherit the Earth."_

_- The Primevian Revolution: The Before and After; 1789-1799_

* * *

**A/N: **So here's chapter two, and I would have been stuck without an idea had it not been for Robotic Fox (grazi!).

Kalina is a Bluh Bluh Huge Bitch, Cygnet is oblivious, Requin is always stressed, Fiamme has a hot temper, and Howell is the Only Sane Man.  
Pretty much my cast in a nutshell.

Swampbloods...yeah. I'll explain later. Think Karkat's mutation, only more widespread and more hated,  
(I'm actually having fun writing this. Me gusta character freedom, though I doubt I'm portraying them well. Ahaha.)

EVERYONE PAY ATTENTION TO LANGUAGE! It'll get cool later on if you do, promises. There are a lot of key descriptive words here.

(And watch out for grammar and spelling mistakes please and thank you).


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